


Tony Swears He Owns Shot Glasses (But Bruce is Not Sure)

by the_wordbutler



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce agreed to one drink.</p><p>This was not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tony Swears He Owns Shot Glasses (But Bruce is Not Sure)

**Author's Note:**

> For youguysimserious on tumblr, who again, really likes it when I churn out some sciencebros.

“I think—” Bruce starts to say, but he stumbles and draws in a breath. It inspires an appreciative little sound out of Tony, like a chuckle but darker. Bruce tips his head back. “I think you own a shot glass.”

“Glass?” Tony asks, and Bruce can’t decide whether his breath is too close or too far from his skin. “No. No, I own a veritable rainbow of shot glasses, a technicolor dream-bar of the things. I just like this better.” 

Bruce whimpers, a little, when Tony’s tongue finds skin. He can’t help it. He’s not used to—this, to … cool liquid and a warm tongue. His belly jumps, creating a ripple effect where the vodka dribbles lower than just his belly.

His fingers lift off the couch cushion for a half-second and then clamp down, pulling at the piping on the edge. Because if it’s not the piping, it’s Tony’s hair, and—

“This is—” Oh, god, Tony’s tongue is— He forces himself to breathe before he scrambles around the last couple syllables of the sentence. “—your fault.”

And it is, really. Mostly. Because they’d worked for sixteen hours straight, except for the fifteen minutes where Pepper’d forced them to split a pizza (and they’d still been working while they ate, so did that count?), and when they’d finished, Tony’d suggested a drink. Just the one, he’d sworn, and Bruce’d settled onto the couch in the lounge while Tony fished an expensive bottle out of the mini-fridge behind the bar.

In retrospect, Bruce should’ve noticed the lack of shot glasses.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and—

And Tony returns to his belly button, lapping up the remnants of vodka in a way that brings Bruce’s hips off the couch. He laughs, this breathy thing against Bruce’s stomach, and looks up at him. Bruce wonders if he looks like some kind of—magazine spread, half-naked on Tony Stark’s couch, his chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing.

“I thought—we were both drinking,” Bruce manages, and looks down to meet Tony’s eyes.

“Oh, you’ll get your turn,” Tony promises, and then, goes back to … work.


End file.
